


Overdue Conversations

by the_ocean_burned



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Graphic Description of Self-Harm, Jeremy tries his best, M/M, Michael in the Bathroom, No Fluff, Not Beta Read, Self-Harm, and he's a good bf, angst no fluff, prolly shitty and ooc but whatever, seriously this is just 3k words of me venting, sorry Michael you're my fave so i projected on to you like crazy :), the Halloween party, trigger warning, tws everywhere guys please be careful if you read this, uhh, unedited, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_burned/pseuds/the_ocean_burned
Summary: Michael's been having a hard time of it since the night of Jake's Halloween party, and Jeremy finally finds out.





	Overdue Conversations

Michael Mell had not been suicidal in a long time. The last time he could remember actively thinking about killing himself had been in the fifth grade. It was not a good feeling, much less a healthy one, and Michael had not missed it.

But then he had been stupid enough to go to Jake’s Halloween party in hopes of getting to talk to Jeremy, and he hadn’t been careful enough about what he wished for, because he got it and it crushed him. Even months after the fact, Michael could hear Jeremy’s cold voice telling him to _Get out of my way, loser._ And the memory still hurt, even though Jeremy had apologized a hundred times and things were good between them again. That night was the worst one in a long time. Hiding in that bathroom, trying and failing to prevent a panic attack, had broken something in Michael. He went home numb, greeted as per usual with an empty house and dead silence, courtesy of his parents being called out on yet another ‘business trip.’

It was too much. The gaping pit in Michael’s chest was endless and pitch black as it swallowed Michael whole. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and then slid slowly to the floor, ignoring the tears sliding silently down his face. The thought of getting stoned crossed his mind briefly, but Michael abandoned that idea quickly. Weed was for when he was keyed up on anxiety and needed to just _stop_ for a moment. That wasn’t what Michael wanted right then. He wanted to die. He wanted a hug. He wanted his parents to be home. He wanted to punch the SQUIP in the face for taking away his best friend. He wanted to play video games with Jeremy. He wanted _Jeremy_ in general. All in all, Michael just wanted to _feel._

 _If that’s what you want,_ a malicious little voice in the back of Michael’s mind whispered, _you know what to do._

Michael tossed his glasses to the floor, not caring where they landed, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. No, no, he wouldn’t. He had promised. He had promised himself, and his parents, and Jeremy. He had promised Jeremy he wouldn’t.

_But Jeremy doesn’t care, and your parents clearly don’t, either, so why shouldn’t you? It’ll make you feel better, you know it will. Just give in, Michael. You know what happens if you don’t._

Michael wondered if this was what it was like for Jeremy to have that awful computer in his head all the time.

It felt like Michael was watching from a distance as his body stood, scooped his glasses from the floor, and made its way down the stairs to the basement, which he had claimed as his bedroom years ago. He was familiar enough with this feeling; dissociation was hardly anything new to him. Sometimes, like now, it was almost welcome, because it held things like anxiety and panic attacks and self-hatred at bay for a little while longer. Dissociation was a good thing, sometimes, because it kept him from having a meltdown at the most inconvenient times, and other times it felt as unhealthy as it was. Right now fell under the latter category. Michael knew where this was headed. He had walked this path a hundred times and it always ended the same way, and Michael was powerless to stop it. He couldn’t even bring himself to car. These next few moments would be hugely important later, he knew, no matter how insignificant they felt now, but the recognition of this fact was nothing more than a dim ping, a slight echo in the yawning cavern of Michael’s ribcage.

Michael didn’t have to stand on tiptoes to get to the top shelf of his closet anymore, he realized dimly as he reached up and groped blindly for the case that had once held a pair of glasses but served a far different purpose now that the glasses were long-broken. It had been so long since he had needed this. He hated that he was relapsing now, but the feeling came from too far away to make any difference.

When he found the case, he pulled it down and sighed a little. Sitting inside was a razor he had taken from the spare set his dad had used to leave at home. It was such an innocuous little thing, three thin blades encased in plastic. Michael had never bothered to separate the metal from the plastic. For one thing, he had never quite figured out how, and for another, they were just as effective in the plastic as they were out of it, and maybe even safer, since it kept Michael from accidentally cutting into an artery or something that would cause more than scars in the long run. Also, people were far more suspicious of naked blades lying around than they were of a normal-looking razor. They tended to assume the latter was a spare, for shaving or something equally mundane, but the former always raised red flags. Replacing the now-empty case in his closer, Michael made his way numbly to the bathroom. It was cliché and painfully stereotypical, he knew – some depressed kid cutting himself in the bathroom – but it was far easier to get blood off of a tile floor than out of a carpet.

There was a routine to this, and Michael was almost scared by how quickly he fell back into his old patterns. Pants off, toilet lid down. One dry wad of toilet paper and one damp one set side-by-side on the counter by the toilet. Sit down, cross-legged, and stare at the razor that was resting deceptively innocently on the back of the toilet. The realization struck, then, a thin bolt of disgust that managed to get through Michael’s dissociative apathy. He was doing this. He was actually doing this. It had been years, and one bad night was going to send him straight back to square one. A wave of self-hatred crashed against the wall of Michael’s dissociation, and for a moment, he wavered. _Do I really need to do this?_

_Yes, you do._

It took longer than most people thought to draw blood. At least, Michael remembered being surprised the first time that it took so long. Maybe it was because Michael was doing it wrong, or maybe it was because he was a coward and it took him a couple tries to get up the courage to use enough pressure to draw blood. The first couple times he pulled the razor across the already-marred skin on the inside of his thigh, nothing happened, but then there was a sharp jab of pain and Michael felt a little closer to reality. He moved to a different spot a couple centimeters to the right and below the first cut when blood began to bead unevenly, and repeated the process until he felt real again. He took a moment to just breathe, his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the wall. When he looked down again, seven thin lines of red stood out against his skin. They weren’t neat or evenly placed like the things he saw online said. They were all at different angles and different lengths, never overlapping – at least, not until they had healed and he cut over old scars because he had run out of room and he didn’t dare move to his arm. At least these he could hide with shorts during the summer and not raise any suspicion that way.

Regret and guilt and rage directed inward threated to drown Michael now that his dissociation had dissipated. He had promised this would never happen again, and then he had gone and fucked it all up, just like he always did.

_No wonder Jeremy doesn’t want to associate with you anymore. You’re pathetic._

Michael swallowed a sob and blinked away the tears fogging his vision, then set about cleaning up. He dabbed at the shallow cuts carefully with the dry toilet paper to make sure they had stopped bleeding, then used the damp wad to carefully wipe away the blood that had spilled over onto his leg.

He went to bed that night emotionally dead and wishing his leg didn’t hurt every time he moved.

 

Two months later, things were better. They weren’t _good,_ per se, but they were definitely better. Jeremy was SQUIP-less, and he and Michael were back to getting stoned and playing Apocalypse of the Damned in Michael’s basement. Oh, and they were dating now. There was that, and that was definitely an improvement.

Okay, so maybe things were better than ‘good.’ The only thing that _wasn’t_ good about the situation, really, was Michael. Or, rather, Michael’s inability to stop self-harming again. He had forgotten how addicting it was. He had forgotten the way that, all of a sudden, even the most minor of stressors made him want to take a blade to his skin so he could remind himself that he was real, that he was alive.

The worst part was that Michael couldn’t bring himself to tell Jeremy, so he still didn’t know. Part of it was Michael’s shame and guilt over the whole situation, but it was also partially because Michael knew Jeremy would blame himself, and that was the last thing Michael wanted. It wasn’t Jeremy’s fault, not really; it was Michael’s fault for not being able to resist the temptation, for being too ashamed and too afraid of being abandoned again to tell anyone who could help, for not being able to tell that the SQUIP was bound to be a bad influence to begin with.

Michael could tell that Jeremy had noticed that something was wrong, though. There was no way for Michael to miss the worried glances and tentatively concerned questions Jeremy kept sending his way. Michael gave him smiles and reassurances in return, but he had never liked hiding things from Jeremy and wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up. Michael just hoped that Jeremy wouldn’t start pushing for answers until Michael had figured out how to bring it up on his own.

Clearly, that was not what was going to happen. It was Saturday, and Jeremy was at Michael’s, and he turned to Michael with an uncharacteristically somber expression, considering that they had just beaten another level of Apocalypse of the Damned. An uneasy feeling tightened Michael’s chest, and he couldn’t even blame it on weed, since they weren’t even remotely high.

“What’s wrong, Michael?” Jeremy demanded, albeit gently.

Michael knew what this was. All of Jeremy’s questions for the past month had been vague and tentative, things like _Is something up?_ and _You know I’m here if you want to talk, right?_ They had given Michael room to avoid the conversation of he wanted. Apparently, that choice had been revoked, and Michael couldn’t see a way to get out of this one.

“Nothing,” Michael lied, hoping his smile was convincing despite the fact that it was faker than the cheese fast food places put on their burgers. It didn’t work, if Jeremy’s increasingly worried expression was anything to go by.

“Bullshit, dude. I know you too well for that, Micah,” Jeremy insisted with a shake of his head. “What’s going on?”

“I relapsed,” Michael blurted, surprised to find the words already queued up on his tongue. He must’ve wanted to tell Jeremy more than he’d thought.

For a moment, Jeremy didn’t seem to realize what Michael had said. Michael could pinpoint the exact moment Jeremy understood. His eyes widened, and his expression went from confused to deeply upset. Michael lowered his gaze to the controller in his hands, not wanting to see the disappointment that he was sure was written all over Jeremy’s face.

“Michael,” Jeremy started.

“It isn’t that big a deal,” Michael responded by rote, then winced. He knew he shouldn’t have said that. When Jeremy had found out about Michael’s self-harm the first time, Michael had given that exact response to Jeremy’s frantic panic. At the time, he had believed what he had said, but he knew better now. It _was_ a big deal, and trying to play down the importance of his relapse was only going to upset Jeremy further.

“It _is_ a big deal,” Jeremy argued.

Michael nodded once and slumped backward into the bean bag. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Jeremy didn’t tell Michael that it was fine, and Michael appreciated it. Nothing was fine, and Michael disliked being lied to as much as he disliked lying. Instead, Jeremy asked, “When?”

And this was the hard part. Michael had two options: tell the truth and watch Jeremy fall into a pit of self-blame, or lie and have Jeremy hate himself even more when he did inevitably find out the truth. It was better just to get it over with now and hope damage control would be successful.

“Two months ago,” Michael admitted reluctantly.

There was a couple seconds’ worth of silence. Michael still didn’t look up. He didn’t want to know what Jeremy’s expression looked like.

“After the party,” Jeremy said, voice strained. It was more of a statement than a question. Michael didn’t respond; Jeremy already knew he was right.

“Oh my God,” Jeremy breathed. “Oh my _God._ I am so sorry.”

Now Michael did look up. Jeremy wasn’t crying, nor did he look even remotely close to tears, but he did look absolutely devastated. This had been why Michael hadn’t been able to tell Jeremy earlier. They had already discussed that night at length, and it hadn’t been Jeremy’s fault, and Michael knew it. He had forgiven Jeremy months ago. But Michael also knew that Jeremy would be hard-pressed to forgive himself, and Jeremy had always had a habit of beating himself up over even the smallest of things. When it was entirely possible that Jeremy still blamed himself for  accidentally eating Michael’s Pop-Tarts in the second grade, there was almost no way that Jeremy would be able to forgive himself for what had happened at the party so soon, especially not now that he knew that night had had such monumental consequences.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Michael said, guilt sitting heavy in his stomach. The fresh cuts on Michael’s thighs burned white-hot and he was very nearly overwhelmed with the urge to run away from this intensely, scarily uncomfortable conversation in favour of a blade in his hand and blood on his legs. But Jeremy would know, and Michael couldn’t bring himself to disappoint Jeremy any more than he surely already was.

Jeremy didn’t respond right away. Michael knew he was going to blame himself no matter how many times Michael said it wasn’t Jeremy’s fault. Instead, Jeremy set his game controller on the floor and scooted his bean bag closer to Michael’s. “Was it just once?”

When Michael opened his mouth to respond, he found that his throat was clogged with oncoming tears, so instead he just shook his head and watched Jeremy’s expression crumple. This was not at all how Michael had wanted this conversation to go.

He expected Jeremy to cry, or apologize, or some combination of the two. What he did not expect was this: Jeremy, throwing himself at Michael and hugging him as tightly as Jeremy’s skinny little arms could manage. Michael did not expect Jeremy to cling to him as if his life depended on it, and yet, that was somehow his reality. Tears pressed hotly at the back of Michael’s eyes.

After a second or two, Michael remembered how to respond to being hugged, and he leaned into Jeremy gratefully. It had been hard for Michael to admit that he was self-harming the first time around, and telling Jeremy that he had relapsed and basically giving him the same secret a second time was very nearly equally as difficult, but if one thing hadn’t changed, it was how much Jeremy cared about Michael. It was reassuring to know that, in the long run, Jeremy would never treat Michael any differently, not over something like this. Now Michael _was_ crying, and he was sure Jeremy knew – Michael was not a quiet crier, nor was he ever able to prevent himself from shaking when he was crying – but Jeremy didn’t say a word about it. He just sat there and held Michael, all of Jeremy’s bony angles jutting out awkwardly from the mess of tangled limbs the boys had become.

“I’ll stop,” Michael promised quietly. “I promise. I stopped once, so I’m sure I can do it again.”

Jeremy nodded, his hair tickling Michael’s jaw. “All right. I believe in you, Micah. And I’m here for you. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“I know.”

Michael did know. Michael knew because Jeremy was still sitting there, even after twelve years and a mess of mental illness and a mess of sexuality confusion and a SQUIP and a few identity crises that probably didn’t qualify as mid-life. He knew because even with the SQUIP in his head, Jeremy had cared about Michael. He knew because Jeremy was lying there in a bean bag, hugging Michael half to death. He knew because Jeremy had tried so damn hard to make absolutely sure that Michael knew how much he regretted that night at Jake’s house, and because Jeremy had been so hesitant to even ask if they were still friends after the SQUIP incident because he had been so afraid of losing Michael but had asked anyway because Jeremy would rather have forcibly separated himself from Michael before he hurt Michael ever again, even unintentionally. He knew because they had been friends through all their weird phases and awkward phases and there’s-a-computer-in-my-head-that-hates-you phases, and were only closer because of it all.

For all the same reasons, Michael knew he’d be able to follow through with his promise. He and Michael had kicked an evil nano-supercomputer out of Jeremy’s thoughts, so how much harder could it be to kick Michael’s self-destructive habit out of his head?


End file.
